


Live Steel

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series, Society for Creative Anachronism RPF
Genre: Amnesia, Camping, Community: hlh_shortcuts, M/M, Mead, Swords & Fencing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all very familiar on some level, when he didn't think about it, and not at all when he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live Steel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elistaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Challenges](https://archiveofourown.org/works/65679) by [Gryphonrhi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi). 



> Endgame never happened, but Rhi's [Challenges](http://archiveofourown.org/works/65679) did.
> 
> Written for Elistaire in the 2012 Highlander Holiday Shortcuts fest. Originally posted [here.](http://hlh-shortcuts.livejournal.com/67800.html)
> 
> Many thanks to Jay_Tryfanstone, Morgynleri, Icka and Athena. Not to mention Amand-r for patience above and beyond, yet again. Thanks also to Hrafnheim and Scadians past and present for welcome and inspiration.

***

He woke to the sound of water: water over stones, chuckling as it ran over pebbles and rocks in a shallow stream, rain-swollen and swift. He didn't remember a river (wash, creek, brook, rill, stream, burn …). Or rather, he could remember too many, with no immediate idea which one this might be. When he opened his eyes, it was to a glow of white that resolved after a moment to pale and unfamiliar canvas, seamed and stretched over a wooden beam in a neat peak not far overhead, making an angle closed off at the ends. The space was small, not much more than a body-length in any direction, but neatly fitted out with cot and rug and lamp and wooden travel-chests. Words cascaded through his head — A-frame, wedge, campaign, tent.... — words that tumbled like the water he could hear but not see.

Where was he? 

He was in a tent, and had no idea how he had come to be there. He could hear water, and did not know from whence it came or where it flowed, what name the locals gave it, or even if it had a name. With that thought, he wasn't certain what his own name was — there were far too many to choose from, and none of them felt entirely right or comfortable.

There were things he did know, however. He knew without question that there was a sharp steel sword under the cot, and an equally sharp knife under the pillow. He knew he wasn't alone in this excursion — recalling a firm, familiar grip on his shoulder, a brush of callused fingers against his lips, a fleeting taste of heather and honey and green _wermod_ — though he was currently alone in the tent, and the cot was only just wide enough for one, so it seemed likely that whoever he was with had their own accommodation. His mind filled with images of companionship, fire-bright eyes, laughter as someone slid off a three-legged stool to land at a be-furred hem with comically florid apologies. He knew he was in an encampment, among (allies, friends, fellow comrades in arms,) the guest of a household, in the midst of other groups, like a stone in the middle of the rings it made in a pond.

He knew he needed to get up and locate whatever they were using as a — necessary, privy, jakes, outhouse — in very short order.

After taking care of that small but urgent matter, he (was he Matthew? Mateo? Matthias? Something like that, but the name refused to surface and take hold amongst the myriad jumbling in his head) found a suitable stick lying near the equally jumbled collection of empty mead-bottles (and how did he know they had held mead? But he did know, could nearly taste the heated sweetness, feel the warm handle of the passing-cup, the companionable press of shoulders and the flicker-bright caress of the fire, ancient mead-hall memories seamless with the recent camp-hearth ones) and poked at the ashes, coaxing dim coals to new life, feeding them with twigs and dry leaves, adding in larger sticks until there was a respectable cook-fire at the head of the oval fire-pit. It was still very early in the morning, the sky brightening, the sun only just peeping low through the trees across the river.

Even if coffee and breakfast were going to be made by more modern means — as seemed likely: the encampment was obviously organized and well-run, and no-one else was yet up, as would be expected were the fire to be employed, and there was no tripod or cooking apparatus in evidence — it was always pleasant on a nippy morning to have a neat blaze to warm one's knees and nose. He shrugged the colorful coat more closely around his shoulders, tucking his fingers in the wide cuffs. He had not recognized the coat — or any of the garments in the tent, not even the underwear — as his, not the way he had known without question that the knife and sword and even the iPhone and attendant solar charger were, but they all fit well enough, and the types were all familiar, if not precisely what would have been worn or found all together at any one time. They were well-made too, of good material and careful craftsmanship. Better than some he had worn. Whoever had made made them was certainly better than Ragnvara had been with cloth and thread. 

Where had that thought come from? He didn't know anyone named that, not now at any rate. No one in the camp had such a discontented twist to their brow, nor seemed likely to spit out in guttural, hard-edged syllables, "may the Wanderer's ravens fly off with you and eat your eyes!" as a favored curse. There were ravens enough about the camp — painted on banners, embroidered on cloaks — but they were all white, not black. As soon as he actually tried to recall more, the memory slithered away, leaving only the echo of a sharp voice in his mind. _That_ was disconcerting. Who was he, to have such things in his head?

Breakfast was convivial, people drifting out of their tents in an assortment of clothes both practical and amusing. Many were in the same kind of coat he wore, over everything from flannel pajamas printed with turtles to what looked to be a full set of clothes for the day. One set of bare shins caught his eye; the owner of them otherwise wrapped in a voluminous plaid over an equally voluminous sark that had seen better days. A familiar tartan, a familiar shirt, even familiar wheat-white hair and speculative, observant, comprehensive gaze. He knew and did not know this man who stepped with deliberate ease into his personal space, warming his knees at the fire mere inches from his own, an invisible aura of steel and lightning and smithy-smoke about him that matched the sense of him in his head. No name came to mind, though the sense of him matched the dream-like memory of shoulder-grip and fleeting touch.

"Sleep well, Matthias?" There was a twinkle in the man's eyes, and a smile lurking behind a deliberately straight face. Matthias wondered what the joke was, with a suspicion that it was on him. 

"I did, yes," he started to say, with no idea what he was going to follow that with, and was rescued by the man doing the honors of camp steward, offering both of them steaming mugs of coffee.

"Matthias, thank you for getting the fire going. Conn, I wasn't sure we'd see you up this early, given how late the night went. The demo isn't until the afternoon, right?"

Conn. Conn MacKinnon. Only that wasn't quite right, or not complete, any more than Matthias was the whole of his own name. Enough to be going on with though. Bits and pieces settled into place. They _were_ doing a demonstration with live steel later in the afternoon, swords, shields, armour, the whole works. He could not imagine what had possessed him to agree to such a thing, but he was here, and not wherever he would normally be. Might as well enjoy it.

Presently, a young lady with a resonant voice and a green tabard over her tunic came up the road, announcing various items: move your vehicles to the parking area please; armour inspection will begin at 9:30 on the field; volunteer point is looking for people for gate-duty, and so forth. She was followed in short order by the melodious sound of a horn over the hill, and people began to bustle about, organizing the washing up, getting into armour, children dashing hither and thither until they were gathered into a gaggle and led like ducklings off to parts unknown. It was all very familiar on some level, when he didn't think about it, and not at all when he did.

***

The battlefield sounds were strangely comforting. The clatter and clash of armor, of wooden shields against the shafts of spears and pikes, the shouts and grunts and thumps. He noted the absence of the hiss of arrows, the sharp clang of metal edges hitting wood and steel, the meaty sound of softer targets, but did not feel a lack. There were no screams or moans or whimpers from the wounded and dying. This was fighting as a sport, a game, serious, but not fatal. All the 'dead' on this field would rise at the end of the battle and do it all again.

The feel of the sword in his hand was more comforting still, the weight a rightness; the firm ground under his feet, the thin-soled shoes giving his toes grip and effortless awareness. The air was clear, the sky bright, the shield weightless in his other hand. Whatever questions he might have about who he was, this he could do. 

He and Conn started the demonstration with simple moves, moving with slow care and precision. The point here was to show how the steel was both similar and different from the rattan weapons the armoured fighters used, as well as how it related to the kind of theatrical fighting most of the audience had seen. Gradually they increased the complexity and speed, explaining less and showing more, building up to the set-piece bout they had planned and practiced. Matthias did not let himself think about when that might have been, or why he could not remember the practice, other than the one that morning, though the moves were all clear in his head and muscles.

Conn's blade whispered past his cheek, a flashy move, drawing a gasp from the audience. Without thought, Matthias leaned back, deflecting the blade with the quillons of his own, and continued the motion, bringing the sword back up in an unexpected attack.

Conn's eyes flashed wide and then instantly narrowed as his stance shifted subtly, snapping into focus. That was better. They were both moving properly now, clean and quick, the steel as much a part of them as bone and sinew. A flurry of ringing blows, a practiced pattern, exhilarating at speed, leading into the ending sequence, the combination of everything they had shown before flowing together to culminate in Matthias' 'victory'.

Suddenly the air was thick with ozone, before-a-thunderstorm-still, though the sky was perfectly clear. The rush of the water from the river at the edge of the field was dim in his ears, all sound muted and distant except the thud of his own heart, the saw of his breath, the high keen that was the song of steel and lightning. Conn's neck was open, the rise of his blade too slow to stop Matthias' stroke. Every fibre of his being knew how this was done: the backhand blow that started in his toes, sprang up through knees and hips, unfurled the length of his spine until shoulders, elbow, wrist were all a whip to strike precisely there. It was a kill-shot, even with a blunted blade and serviceable armor. And something in him hungered for it, cried out for the follow-through, the lightning finish. 

No. _No._ He fought the instinct, finding somewhere deep the strength and skill to slow the blade, locking muscles against themselves to bring the edge to a stop just kissing Conn's gorget under the edge of his helmet. As it did, memory flooded in, filling all the oddly empty spaces. His wrists trembled, only the weight of the sword and sheer, bloody-minded will keeping Methos from shuddering outright at the rush of adrenaline icing his veins.

Conn — _Connor_ — laughed off the nearness of the danger, making a flourishing and elaborate bow acknowledging Methos' victory, accepting the applause and commentary of the gallery. Methos sheathed the blade with precise care, remembering.

***

_"Afraid you won't remember the forms, Old Man?"_

_Unaccountably stung, Methos retorted "I could give you a good fight even if I had no memory at all. You know perfectly well that sword work is about body & will._

_"Care to prove that, then?"_

_"The SCA? Seriously? Connor, you are either pulling my leg or else you've misplaced a card or two from your deck. No." Methos ended the call with a swipe of his thumb, momentarily missing the satisfying clatter of an old-fashioned handset being forcefully returned to it's cradle. Though he supposed there was[an app](https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/rotary-dialer/id284926166?mt=8) for that. There was for a number of absurd and anachronistic things these days. _

_The phone chirped under his hand. Connor again. He was serious, or at least serious enough to call back immediately rather than go to the next person on his list._

_"You need to get out of that dusty hole of a research archive and get some sunlight, as well as some human company, and I need someone who actually knows the old forms." Before Methos could interject, Connor went on, "Duncan's not available. He suggested you."_

_"The only way to get me to an_ SCA _event would be if you knocked me over the head and turned me into a completely different person."_

 _"That can be arranged, you know,_ Matthew _."_

***

The demo over, Methos was distracted and a little raw around the edges, glad of the armour even after taking off the helmet and gauntlets, letting Connor take most of the questions from the onlookers. Connor had laughed off the dangerous moment, making a joke about professionals and swords that underscored the potential risks of live steel while deflecting attention from the actual. Methos was reminded that Connor was an excellent teacher when he chose to be.

The afternoon sun was touching the tree-tops, turning the autumn leaves of sycamore and salt-cedar to glowing gold, but the air was still pleasantly warm, though it would be chilly come sunset, and positively cold in the night. The stars would be brilliant; no clouds to cover them, and very little ambient light to dim their fires. Methos tilted his face to the sun and let the light-dazzle and water-murmur try to settle his still-wound nerves. Why on earth had Connor trusted him like that?

Had Connor perhaps been trying to teach _him_ something, persuading him out here, putting his head, quite literally, in Methos' hands? _Matthias — and Yoda — had the right idea_ , he thought wryly, _live in the moment. Enjoy it while you have it._ It was a lesson he did know, had rediscovered many times, and apparently had needed to be reminded of once more. 

Back at camp, they both stripped down to trews and tunics, debating whether or not to make the trek through the copse to the upper part of the site and the showers. Deciding against the idea, Methos collected a mug of the excellent red ale on tap under the sunshade, and wandered out to the little spit of land that overlooked the river. The outcropping was only there because of the tree that clung stubbornly to the earth, gnarled roots gripping the soil and keeping that part of the bank stable, fending off the erosion of the water. He felt a certain odd kinship with the tree.

After a moment, Connor joined him, mug of his own in hand. He had a light in his eye that Methos had learned to suspect long since. Without warning, Connor snagged the mug from Methos' fingers and tipped him over the roots and into the river. 

Methos tucked as he splashed down into the pool beneath the tree, going completely under the cold green water. Almost instantly his toes found the bottom, rounded pebbles and rocks silted and firm. Light glittered on the moving surface, and as his head broke into the air, the world came aright, everything back in place in his head.

"Connor!" Methos yelled, sputtering with equal parts outrage and laughter,"what was that for?"

"That," Connor replied, putting both mugs safely down among the tree-roots — never waste good beer — and leaning out over the water with a grin, "was for that stunt you almost didn't pull earlier. And this," He shucked his tunic and dropped neatly into the water, splashing Methos again. He chuckled at Methos' expression when he emerged, planing the water from his cheeks with his hands and finished his sentence, "this is for me not seeing it coming." There was a serious note underlying the light-hearted tone. "I'll not tease you about your memory again." 

One of the people getting the fire laid for the evening called out cheerfully, and only a little alarmed, "Come out of the river, you loons! You'll freeze to death!"

Methos and Connor looked at each other and once again dissolved in laughter. Methos finally found the breath to answer as they both got their feet under them and made their way to the bank. "I promise you, no death will be involved."

***

Methos' Journal, 16 Nov, 2012 (In Latin, a neat scribal hand)

I really should know better by now not to get into bets or any kind of wager with Connor. He doesn't cheat, precisely, but he certainly does stack the deck, and is a positive rules-lawyer for points uncovered. One is reminded very strongly that he was taught by the Spanish (Egyptian) Peacock, and calls Sunda Kastagir one of his most firm friends. One wonders what either of them would have thought of both the event and the wager. The chances both he and Connor had taken. They would certainly have enjoyed the mead-fire and the home-brewed beer. Several of those people know what they are about with that.

I would not have thought I would enjoy myself at such a thing. A 'Society for Creative Anachronism' war of all absurd, anachronistic things. I certainly did not expect to be comfortable among that crowd, but I have to say I was. They've grown up some since the early days. I may even see about staying involved in a small way. 

If nothing else, it would allow for practicing sword work with other people in an unremarkable way. And that has its attractions all by itself.

*Fin*

**Author's Note:**

> [Southern Crusades](http://www.southerncrusades.org/) is a real event, though I have taken some liberties with the details. The spot beneath the tree at our usual campsite isn't actually deep enough to swim in, even when there is water in the river, as there was this year.


End file.
